All the while I was happily settled in the offices of Felix, Cissel, Cowel, at first under the watchful eye of Miss Murdock, the senior typist, who made possible a smooth transition from the school room to the office desk, but who, with the early collapse of the Hampton Plains gold rush, had returned to her previous position in a Perth legal firm.
To me the developments were rapid ones. I was given her senior typist position and invited to bring to my vacant chair my sister Marjorie. She was a good all-rounder, delighted to be working in the same office as I.
Much can happen in a short space of time, especially in Kalgoorlie. The Hampton Plains gold boom had come and gone in a media-like flash.
I now had work to do in the most prestigious law firm in the Goldfields. I had learnt much of how a successful firm operates during a time of high tension, and then in times of recession. I considered myself a fixture in the offices of Felix Cowel, capable of handling some of the legal requirements of typing option agreements, leases, mortgages, probate affairs and the multifarious concerns of the Law.
At first the offices seemed austere, mildly forbidding. Later they were comfortable with their signs of usage through the hectic years of the Goldfield’s golden era. The furniture had an old-world, mildly antiquated look, an accepted corollary of the Law, even as grey hair adds a glory to old age. Lining the shelves of the front office were shelves stacked with ponderous tomes, within whose hard covers was the wisdom of the ages, the framework of the Law with its forms at precedents – so I had been informed. I had no inclination to prove such assertions.
During the 20 years or more of occupation, every available corner of those rooms had become stacked with documented clutter, obviously the output of a firm from the day he’d hung up his brass shingle at the entrance facade of the new Exchange Building in Hannah Street, where it could be read the legend:
“Felix Cessel Cowle. Barrister at Law; King’s Counsel; Notary Public; Commissioner for Affidavits; justice of the peace.”
That was intimidating, until one became acquainted with the honorable gentleman. When his black gown was hanging on its special hook and his white wig restored to its black box, he was approachable, friendly-like.
Also such considerations aside, time moved relentlessly on, as I fitted into the regime of the Law. I was now the senior stenographer/typist, assigned to record on paper the results of my boss’s judgments, opinions, directives in matters concerning the wide ramifications of the Law of the land.
There was some new lesson to learn; such as on the day I ruffled the serenity of the newly-elevated Bishop of the Anglican Diocese of the Eastern Goldfields, whose bounds of office stretched an untested infinity of desert miles. Oxfordian Syril Golding-Bird had already taken up residence in the family like Church mansion, “Bishopbourne”, there reigning in bachelor supremacy. His presence was required in our office for his commission to have the HYPHEN OF TIME whereon I must spend the sum of my years. Is it so strange an analogy that Time is a mere hyphen between two vast eternities, one of which stretches backward to the aeons BEFORE God set his Timepiece in the heavens and, the galaxies of Eternity AFTER the awesome Edict, “THERE SHALL BE TIME NO MORE!” The contemplation of such impenetrable mysteries engulfs me completely. The wonderful Present is all I have a sufficient matter for me to handle – even the pleasant hours spent in writing these, my memoirs!
Punctually the Bishop arrived, an august presence in long black spats, white starched bib and purple cravat. Completed, the type sheets of brief-sized paper went to the front office for reading and approval. Was it the startling livery of the Church, the aura of sanctity surrounding the prelate, the weight of my responsibility, [or] Mr. Cowle’s cramped handwriting, who knows? I fumbled it! I carelessly failed to type the hyphen in the dear Bishop’s name. There was an ominous silence in the front room, the flurry of words with overtones of dismay. Back to my desk came the typed sheets, with instructions to supply the missing hyphens. That accomplished, the document was signed and witnessed. With green silk binding tape I threaded together the title page, the newly typed material, then the backing sheet, splitting the two ends of the tape apart ready to receive a dollop of hot red sealing wax. From the finger of the King’s Counsel came his signet ring, to be impressed in the hot wax, irrevocably sealing the ends together. With the signatures of all concerned persons in place, the document was now delivered into the hands of the now-mollified Bishop of the widest diocese in the land.
The experience lived long in my memory. It seemed incredible that so small a matter as a missing Yost typewriter key was capable of causing a furor in the inner sanctum of King’s Counsel and his Bishop. On my part, it was unpardonable to have missed to type the hyphen. But the elaborate procedure was probably part of the pride and circumstance of the Victorian era pompously carried over to more modern times. Yet it’s quaint.
In retrospect the personal crisis of the missing hyphens is but one of the many varying experiences encountered within the enclosing walls of a law firm, each one capturing a capsule of Time. There was the affair of the turbaned Arab camel driver, a **** remain of a long past, who visited our offices for help, the charge being a serious infraction of the moral law. With solicitous concern for my feelings the law clerk himself, Tasman Williams, typed the full dirty facts of the case, later filing the Court’s verdict and all relevant matters. It was the only occasion I can now recall when Mr. Williams endeavored to hide my pure eyes from the actual facts of life. It didn’t, for I was, among other things, the filing clerk.
The majority of cases passing through my hands and reaching the Courts were matters of the mining industry itself, principally gold stealing, which provided full scope for Mr. Cowle’s gown and wig. I cannot now measure the worth to me of Felix, Cessel, Cowle and Company’s experiences during the four and half years I spent under their direction.
Mother battled bravely on, sewing for her family of girls, and adding to our reduced income sewing for others, purchasing a new Red Seal Singer peddle machine to take over the job handled through past years by her old turn-the-handle contraption on which I first learned to sew. Marjorie and I were at work in the legal offices. I was happily at work and keeping ourselves in pocket money, and we were managing well enough, but our home background was affecting in ways I failed to comprehend. Dancing had lost its old-time rapture, for suitable partners were seldom available. The silent movies provided entertainment, while the Public Library became the best escape for myself. I was young; two of my friends Alice Brearley and Ida Clift, had left or were planning to leave Kalgoorlie, as I knew I would miss our occasional games of tennis together.
I was looking for something to lift me from my self. The daily “Kalgoorlie Miner” brought the news of the day, and its columns provided an original idea. It was time I took an interest in the world around me, even beyond my pleasant office and its understanding principals. What interest did others follow beyond their daily work pattern? I would visit some of the advertised Clubs and Societies.
No sooner decided that it was accomplished. Other people had found ways and ideas unknown to me. Why not visit the Anti-Vivisectionists Society, which held meeting occasionally in a local hall? I did, and found dour-faced group of older people voicing their opposition to man’s experimentation on dumb animals, in an endeavor to abolish various death-dealing plagues and epidemics that man was heir to. I listened attentively to the only meeting I attended, then left members smug in their own superficial findings.
To even up the score, I attended the meeting of the R.S.P.C.A., the well intentioned Society aiming at the Prevention of Cruelty to Dumb Animals: an idea well supported by Royalty. They were a more joyous group, hell-bent on protecting their pets from the same experimentation on animals! We had no pets, and my interest in such matters waned.
I soon chanced on something more helpful, the R.S.L., Returned Soldiers League formed by returned men in an effort to help their fellow compatriots. I tried to encourage father to join this group, but he had enough of war and this aftermath.
It was a master move when I attended a meeting of the Esperanto Society, the unofficial language invented by a Polish scholar in the eighties of the last century, a Society of which I heard, but of which I knew little. I was surprised to see among the supporters of the idea of international language for all the people, where my next-door neighbors, Frank Masel, a local pawn broker, and his brother Isadore, newly arrived from Detroit, where he had worked in the large car factory. With my meeting of these two Jewish neighbors, a new world seemed to open up. We had been on speaking terms with Frank, and his wife and family but little more. Now we seemed friends, exchanging ideas, expressing opinions, and though I early rejected the possible expansion of the Esperanto idea, I had learnt much, in particular, that “no man is an island entire to itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.” (John Donne d.1631.)
Written more graphically are the words put into the mouth “Ginger Mick,” the rabbiter, by his creator, C.J. Dennis: “Every man’s a gold mine ef ya jest dig deep enough!”
I was on my homeward way one afternoon when I spied a two-pole tent pitched on the vacant block of land at the corner of Varden Street and Lamington Heights tramline. Was it a merry-go-round, a hoop-la show? I concluded it was not: but it may be some outreach of the Salvation Army, who periodically visited our neighborhood, with their drums, cornets, and tambourines. I determined to visit the tent at the time appointed as shown on a street sign outside the tent. And I did the next Sunday evening, and was intrigued to see and hear a small congregation signing, seated on folding canvas forms, and leading in song by shortish man with a high-pitched tenor voice, [standing on a] raised wooden dais at the far end of the tent, supported by a manually-operated organ, which was being vigorously pumped by a slender woman.
The tent was pleasantly warm by the heat from a large perforated drum filled with glowing charcoal, standing on bricks on the galvanized iron base in the saw-dust covered aisle. It was a normal contrivance, admirably suited to its specific use. I took note of the home-spun congregation, increasing in numbers as the people sang.
I entered quietly at the invitation of a young male usher, accepted a paper-backed song book and sat down on unsteady canvass form. I listen to the evening address, straight from the Bible, and not from the Book of Common Prayer or the Collet [Collect?] of the day. Neither the Bishop nor the Arch Deacon Collick spoke so convincingly, or with such verve and spirit, yet the speaker of the evening wore neither gown nor surplice, nor the uniform of the Salvation Army.
I decided to return the following Sunday evening, meanwhile resolving that I must get back to the morning Holy Communion at the well-loved red brick Anglican Church, where I attended sporadically for years.
I told my parents where I had been, repeating the substance of the evening meeting, but they had doubts about the matter, suggesting I do not attend again.
I did return again and again. Soon I knew a few of the regular congregation, all hard-working folk, with no pretentions to special knowledge or importance, beyond the conviction of Truth, and a noticeable love of the new faith which some of them had already espoused.
In time I was invited to attend casual musical gatherings in the preacher’s rented home in Ward Street not far from where we lived. [In] the home of the preacher and his wife, Pastor and Mrs. Gordon Robinson, it was open house each Saturday night to young folk in particular and others in general. I joined the group eventually, and found a pleasant mix of Youth and Age, each one of whom added something to the evening’s entire program of community singing, a chosen line of prose or verse, a solo, or the indolent joy of listening to everyone else, which last is a talent seldom given its share of praise. The evening provided for me more than entertainment; it was demonstration of unsophisticated boldness to contribute something; to revel in the artless effort of others; to stand up and be counted.
I attended the tent meetings through a series of prophetic subject, in general themes, calculated to bolster one’s conviction of Truth, with an obvious intention to gain followers. I had considered everything, sometimes accepting the message, sometimes not, but always helped mentally or spiritually.
I am confident I added more enthusiasm and spirit to my office work, and was impressed to tell Mr. Williams of my new obsession, as mother called it. In fact I asked for a couple of hour’s leave of absence to attend the service of the Anglican Faith Healer, Hickman, who visited the Goldfields area by request. I watched the noisy, display of faith, mingled with the prayers of hundreds of lame, halt and blind people, and returned to my office desk sobered, disturbed, disappointed. Staid, matter-of-fact Tasman Williams, who was beyond a show of euphoria or excitement over anything, smiled benignly, as if to say, “I told you so”.
After a month or more of such Gospel preaching the Varden Street tent was dismantled, and made ready for transporting to Albany, on the Southern Ocean, where a similar series of meetings were to be held by the same mission team. Before their departure, the congregation was told that there was to be a resident Pastor to serve the needs of all the Church in Cheetham Street, Kalgoorlie. By the time, I knew full well that the Tent effort was directed by the Seventh‑day Adventist denomination, which had spread from its origin in [the United States of] America, and was then operating in many countries of the world. On the Goldfields there were two Churches, one in Boulder near the mining leases, and one in the heart of Kalgoorlie, to which point we were directed for help and support, under the leadership of a Pastor named Britten, who conducted divine services each Saturday morning. This development created a situation of crisis for me, should I wish to follow through with more instruction. I was always on duty at work in the legal office each Saturday morning at the time, and there was little chance of a dispensation of a seventh-day Sabbath absence from my desk.
Soon the preacher told that he was under transfer to the Southern port of Albany, to conduct a similar campaign to the one I had attended. Then Pastor Robinson and his tent master dismantled the canvas tent and left for their new assignment, after assuring each one of us that we could find fellowship and further instruction under the supervision of a Pastor Britten, and, in the central church in Cheetham Street, Kalgoorlie, each Saturday morning.
That was a blow to me. I was working each Saturday morning! It appeared to be the end of a pleasant month or two I had spent learning to know these genuine, simple-hearted people, and to be a more intelligent concerning the Bible of which I had known so little.
Then came a sudden disastrous climax to any plans or purposes I may have had in mind. The pneumonic influenza plague had been raging throughout Asia, Europe and most countries on the earth, including Australia, and finally the Goldfields of the West. It spread rapidly, exacting a heavy toll, and father was one of its victims; I vividly remember the crisis of that time. The wife of a near neighbor had died, and the husband had been the first to offer his condolences to mother. The remaining members of the Everett family were at hand for companionship, solace and comfort as mother faced up to implications of a fatherless home, and the responsibility of rearing a family of girls.
Then followed the wrenching effort of disposing of father’s office furniture, which we decided was best accomplished by public auction. Regretfully, at such a time there was a dearth of buyers, and our cash returns from Mr. Brazil were low.
Through it all mother bravely faced the challenge, occupying herself in household chores and sewing on her new Singer treadle Red Seal machine.
Time is a healer. Our closest friends were helpful, visiting often, and young Mona, “Monnie” as we always called her, brought abounding joy and happiness to us all.
Too soon another shock came. It was a telegram from Bruce Rock telling of nephew Eric Broadbent’s death in a tree-felling accident. The message was relayed to his mother in the Isle of Man, one whom we respected but had not met. The Government took charge of some of the expenses, while we made an earnest appeal to the mortician to return to us a gold watch and chain of father’s which mother had given Eric, as the only [local] member of the Eastwood family. Our request was never honored.
